


Evil Overlord, Inc. the Next Chapters

by Footloose, mushroomtale



Series: Unstoppable Superweapons [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Evil Dumbledore, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-14 15:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11786469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Footloose/pseuds/Footloose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mushroomtale/pseuds/mushroomtale
Summary: Ungrateful clients, unexpected mole rats as guard dogs, secret plots, and the Royal Mail living up to its name.Also, two Evil Overlords behind closed doors, very much in love.





	1. The Plot Thickens

The floorboards in the corridor leading to Arthur's office were better than any security system in the world. Neither stealthy spy nor dastardly villain could cross without getting a few creaks for their effort. While it didn't need to be, that corridor was Merlin-proof, which meant it could withstand the ill-advised invasion from rogue MRO agents, delivery people, and Morgana, should they ever make it past the fake flat and into the heavily-warded and technologically-secure inner sanctum of Arthur's evil lair.

 _Their_ evil lair, Arthur corrected absentmindedly. Four bookshelves, a sturdier desk, and a new laptop (his old one was grievously obsolete) later, Merlin had more than made himself at home. His absence was acutely felt, because that meant Arthur had to pick up after Merlin and do the dishes.

(They had an arrangement. Merlin cooked. Arthur washed the dishes. Merlin used his magic to dust the flat and mop the floors. Arthur tried to remember to use a _reasonable_ amount of soap in the washing machine. Merlin tried to remember to pick up his pants from the floor.)

"It's just me," Merlin announced, as the floor announced his progress.

"Hello, me," Arthur said, glancing between computer monitors with dissatisfaction. He continued to type, finishing off the latest bit of programming to send to George. For all of his eccentricities, George was a meticulous debugging monster, capable of finding errors in more than half the time that it took Arthur. Arthur was determined that he wouldn't get delayed notifications from his MI5 hacks, ever again.

The creaking stopped. Arthur tilted his head automatically, got distracted by an alert that popped up on the screen, and forgot why he'd tilted his head in the first place.

Eventually, he realised that Merlin was home, and that he hadn't half-snogged the life out of him yet, so he turned around.

Merlin was in the doorway, shoulders slumped, a forced smile on his lips.

He was also completely doused in some sort of yellowish slime.

The hair on one side of his head stuck straight up. His clothes were both soaked and permanently rumpled. His shoes were a total write-off, and he was missing most of his tie. 

Arthur eyed him critically. "I'd add dry cleaning to the bill, but I don't think our usual shop can handle whatever you were coated with. I'll put it down as destroyed equipment. Consumable expenses. Something like that. I'll bill him for the replacement. Come to think of it, you're rather hard on your clothes, so maybe I'll add that line item in the accounting --"

"We're never accepting a job from Adrian Cenred again," Merlin said flatly.

"He has a lot of problems to fix," Arthur pointed out. "He pays well."

"There's not enough money in the world, Arthur," Merlin complained, spreading his arms in demonstration. The movement was accompanied by a wet squelching sound and something splattering behind him, out of sight.

Arthur grimaced. His poor floor.

"What was it this time?" he asked. "The last one was a manticore. The one before that was a gnome uprising. Before that, it was basilisks in the belfry."

"Giant mole rats in the factory," Merlin said. He made a mournful sound. "One of them _licked_ me."

Arthur barely managed to contain his laugh. It came out as a cough. He weathered Merlin's slimy glower and said, "Well, that's to be expected. If he won't raise his minimum wage, he won't get the skilled workers he needs. And if he has to resort to mole rats for his security team… It's his own fault when they get out of control."

"If he'd pay his people a reasonable wage --" Merlin stopped talking when a glob of slime landed on his nose. He closed his eyes and went thin-lipped for a moment. Without another word, he turned on his heel and headed toward the master bedroom, where he hopefully was going to be taking a shower.

"The industrial detergent is under the sink!" Arthur called out helpfully.

A distant door slammed shut.

Arthur smirked. He resolved to put Adrian Cenred low on the clients list and to send a note to their booking agent in the company to make sure Merlin didn't have to deal with Cenred's underhanded company tactics and foibles for at least three more months.

 _Make that six months_ , he decided, because he could hear Merlin swearing loudly and creatively from the en-suite bathroom.

Arthur turned back to his computers. A few more alerts had popped up on the screen. He leaned forward, glossing over the headings with growing delight before returning to the first hacked document to read it in more depth.

Eight dense MI5 reports and some time later, Arthur was treated to a very thorough snog that culminated in a slightly messy (but magically cleaned up) hand job by a much, much nicer-smelling, but still damp, Merlin. Four more alerts had appeared on his monitoring screen -- two of them from MI6, which, well, _bugger_ \-- during the distraction, and after a few more kisses, Arthur reached over to open the documents.

"What are you working on?" Merlin asked, his chin on Arthur's shoulder. He squinted, then said, "Oh, ho, ho, ho. Keeping an eye on your arch nemesis, aren't you?"

"He's not my arch nemesis," Arthur said testily. "He's an incompetent nitwit in the service of Her Royal Majesty, blundering around on luck alone, and it's a miracle that he has neither got himself killed, nor caused an international incident in the last few months. He's a troublemaker. I keep an eye on troublemakers."

Merlin patted Arthur on the head patronisingly. "Galahad's your Muirden, isn't he?"

Arthur glanced over his shoulder at Merlin and narrowed his eyes.

(Despite being completely humiliated -- not to mention _terrified_ \-- at the "job interview" for Evil Overlord, Incorporated, Edwin Muirden had been awfully quick to jump back to his feet. Whether Muirden really was that thick in the head, or he really did have it out for Merlin was still in the air, but it didn't take long before he started making a spectacle of himself.

Once again copying from Merlin, Muirden went ahead and opened up his own shop -- _BAMF! Supernatural Services_ \-- using EOI as a business model. He even stole the website and re-worked the logo, which put both Gilli and Lance in something of a froth. Merlin had had to prevent Percival from storming over to punch the pillock.

Although irritating to lose business to a company that didn't know its left hand from its right arse cheek, ultimately, the amusement factor outweighed the strain it put on EOI. More than once, Merlin had needed to step in to stop a bad situation from getting worse, and the lack of confidence in _BAMF!_ meant that their client base had turned to EOI in droves. If Muirden wasn't already bankrupt, he would be, soon; the number of lawsuits against him and his company were due large settlements, if Morgana was to be believed.

And Arthur believed her, because EOI had a few suits against Muirden himself, including trademark infringement, intellectual property theft, and attempted manslaughter charges. They'd be seeing a hefty sum, soon. Morgana was after the entire Muirden family fortune, but Arthur thought she'd be satisfied by merely nailing his bollocks to the wall.

Literally.

Still, Merlin couldn't muster up the energy to go out and kill the bastard. He required supervision, but otherwise wasn't worth the murder charge.)

"Yes, Merlin," Arthur said, in his best, flattest tone. "Galahad is my Muirden." He paused. Then, with emotion, he added, " _Obviously_."

"I think you're secretly waiting for the day that he needs your help with something. You really want to do the Evil Overlord chair swirl, don't you?"

(Yes, he did. 

So much.)

"Don't be ridiculous," Arthur said, and saved additional blackmail material to his Secret File FoldersTM.

Merlin snorted, as if he didn't believe a single word out of Arthur's mouth, and started to leave. He was nearly at the door when he said, "Nearly forgot. The post came, a big package came for you. It passed your mail sniffer, I don't sense anything untoward about it, but it's vaguely magical."

"Uh, uh," Arthur said distractedly. 

Galahad was having an industrious day. So far, he'd driven past Parliament and splattered a few MPs with mud on his way across the bridge, stolen a woman's purse under some sort of strange pretext of trying to disguise himself to follow his suspect while incognito, and ran out of one of Gordon Ramsey's five star restaurants without paying his bill. They'd never let him sign out the Ferrarri from MI5 ever again, someone would eventually tell him that a pink purse didn't go with a purple suit jacket, and Arthur wished he could be there when Galahad found out he was banned from all of Ramsey's restaurants. For life. 

"I'll check it later," Arthur said, when he realised Merlin was waiting for an answer.

"I'm making raw turnips with boiled cabbage for dinner," Merlin said.

"Sounds delicious," Arthur said, and clicked on a few more things. "I'll be done soon."

"Right," Merlin said, still with that disbelieving tone. 

"I promise," Arthur said, and added, "Can you do something different with those raw turnips, though? They were kind of bland last time."

"Ugh," Merlin said. He stomped across the office, kissed the back of Arthur's neck, and stormed out.

Arthur smirked. Merlin always wound himself up into such a strop when he thought Arthur wasn't paying attention, but he hated it even more when he was proven wrong.

Forty-three minutes later and two minutes shy of the alarm reminding him it was officially the end of the work day and it was time to save everything before Merlin burst in and did it for him, Arthur saved everything, turned the monitors off, stretched, and headed downstairs.

Dinner was something garlicky, pasta-related, and bubbling in a pot. A bowl of mixed salad was on the dining room table, which was mostly set with a motley mixture of cutlery, and there was an enticing tumbler of alcohol on the counter of the kitchen island.

"Mine," Merlin said, using magic to draw the glass away from Arthur's grasp. He pointed with one finger as he took a sip, then said, "Package."

"Package," Arthur repeated, turning around.

The package was hard to miss. It was about four feet long and one foot wide, wrapped in plain brown paper, and decorated with official-looking stamps and delivery company stickers. 

FROM GWAINE'S MUM was written in black Sharpie ink, but beyond that, there was no real indication of where it had come from.

Arthur scowled. "You could've said it was from Gwaine."

"You would've told me to toss it in the bin," Merlin said, pouring himself another glass of scotch from Arthur's When-Merlin's-Had-A-Bad-Day stash. He was being generous today, because he dribbled a finger into a second glass, which he pushed toward Arthur. "Might as well open it."

"It's a snake-in-a-can novelty prank," Arthur said.

"That was two weeks ago," Merlin said, turning to take a platter of garlic bread out of the oven.

"It's full of glitter," Arthur said, holding the package out at arm's length.

"You added glitter to the list of things your scanner looks for," Merlin said, over his shoulder. A billow of steam escaped as he lifted the lid of what Arthur recognised as Merlin's mum's famous meatball sauce.

"I haven't quite got around to testing it," Arthur said.

"No better time," Merlin said. He rolled his eyes. "Anyway, it's the first time he's sent something on behalf of his mum. It can't be that bad. Open it and put it away. Let's just have a nice dinner, yeah?"

Arthur sighed heavily. He cut the tape with the Swiss Army knife he always kept on him, carefully aimed the opening away from the kitchen and the delicious food, and struggled with the end flap.

He looked inside.

"Huh."

Arthur reached in and pulled out a beautiful sword and a lot of Styrofoam peanuts. The blade gleamed in the light, it was beautifully balanced, and it felt unusually comfortable in his hand. There was some sort of engraving along the side of the blade, and, tilting it just so, Arthur made out E X C A L I B U R.

"Huh," he said again, picking up the note that had fallen to the floor. He read it once, then read it again, out loud.

" _Mum says it's about time this went to its rightful owner. Says it's you. Not sure I believe her, but whatever mum says goes. G._ "

"It's lovely," Merlin said, walking over to the dinner table, carrying steaming plates of spaghetti with cricket ball-sized meatballs in both hands. "You've been complaining that the spot over the fireplace was bare. You could hang it there."

"That's an idea," Arthur said, putting the sword aside. He took his glass of scotch, picked up the plate of garlic bread, and joined Merlin at the dinner table. He kissed Merlin on the cheek, sat down, and said, "Looks delicious."

(Nobody local carried the proper brackets for longswords of this size. While waiting for Amazon.co.UK to deliver the pieces, Arthur stored the sword in the umbrella stand.

He never used it to cut slices of bread, no matter what Merlin claimed.

But the sword was definitely very sharp, and came in handy when the Black Knight burst into their fake flat on the day Merlin was out of town.

Arthur never did mount it above the fireplace, but he did end up commissioning a custom weapons stand, and left Excalibur in a place of honour in the corridor. Merlin, who was the best boyfriend and Evil Overlord in the world, bought him a sheath and charmed it to make the sword look like an umbrella whenever he went out.)


	2. When Gods Meddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwaine finally gets his due.
> 
> (And more.)
> 
> * * *

Gwaine might never have planned on appearing at one of Pendragon Unlimited's famous parties without express invitation, but it happened, sometimes. 

Between the chores his mum made him do and his job at MI5, sometimes it was necessary to sneak in, however he could. Whether that meant disguising himself as part of the staff, avoiding attention by pretending to be the worst server in the world, stealing someone else's invitation and hoping no one asked for ID, or sidling up to a lonely person and accompanying them as their date, it didn't matter. Gwaine had a job to do, and he would do it.

Except, tonight, he wasn't on the clock, the invitation was in his name, and he'd been so taken by surprise by the long-awaited fulfilment of Arthur's favour that he'd forgotten to get himself a date.

It was very strange, and he was a bit discombobulated.

Gwaine leaned against the bar and shamelessly flirted with all of the bartenders while Uther Pendragon, owner and chairman of Pendragon Unlimited, stood on the dais at the head of the room and announced that he was running for Parliament.

(Gwaine didn't keep tabs on such things. That was Tristan's job. However, Gwaine did read the paper now and then, and he knew that this wasn't an election year. He supposed it was never too early to start campaigning.)

When Pendragon Unlimited threw a party, it was a _party_ , with any number of rich A-listers attending, with no room for everyone on that list or any other list, besides. When Gwaine had arrived, he'd nearly been turned away at the door, but the golden invitation apparently put him in a class above and beyond everyone else.

He felt special. 

Most of mum's attention was devoted to his older brothers and sisters, or stolen by her own troublemaking brothers and sisters. It wasn't often that he had much one-on-one time with his mum, and Tristan always barged in and monopolised the few minutes Gwaine had with her, so it wasn't as if he didn't already feel like he was the low man on the proverbial totem pole. 

It was strange, Gwaine decided, that the simple gesture of a golden invitation would make him feel important. Especially since the person who sent it was determined to keep Gwaine at arm's reach. Maybe Merlin was the one who had sent the invitation, not Arthur, and, thinking about it, it was the only thing that made sense.

Gwaine always did like Merlin. He'd been a precocious child, despite the turbulent times, and to this day, Gwaine regretted never having arrived in time to save Merlin's father, or, at the very least, to take his soul across the mists to Avalon, where he could have watched his son grow up into the marvellous man he had become.

Suddenly maudlin, Gwaine waved for and downed a glass of cheap (for the Pendragons) brandy. It burned on the way down, but it wasn't quite like the ale his Great Uncle used to brew in the old days.

He blamed the drink for not immediately having noticed that the bartenders had scattered, or that he'd been book-ended by Arthur and Merlin.

"Well, hello," Gwaine said lecherously, waggling his eyebrows with interest.

"Put that away," Merlin said.

"Yes, do," Arthur said, scratching the side of his face. He looked pained.

Gwaine frowned at the two men. Something wasn't quite right, but he was nothing if not quick to come to a conclusion. He turned to Merlin, and accused, "You told him."

"Nope," Merlin said, sticking his hands in his trouser pockets.

"You did," Gwaine insisted.

Merlin shook his head. "Still, nope."

"I didn't reveal myself. I'm not stupid. Neither are the others," Gwaine said.

"Others?" Arthur asked, suddenly interested.

Gwaine ignored him.

"What others?" Arthur asked, tugging on Merlin's sleeve.

"I'll tell you later," Merlin said in an indulgent tone, and shrugged at Gwaine, who was pretty sure he was glowering with the intensity to melt a hole through the floor. "Why not? He figured it out on his own, and I've learned the hard way that he's less dangerous with information than without."

That was a surprisingly fair estimation of Arthur Pendragon's character. Gwaine pouted, because he'd ~~worked with~~ ~~harassed~~ visited the bloke for years over at MI5, and he hadn't quite pinned down what made Arthur tick. Still, that didn't detract from the more important thing that Gwaine really wanted to know.

"But _how_?" Gwaine asked.

"'m not entirely sure, to be honest. I mean, he got past all the magical protections on my books. He's about halfway through my library. He found the _Tenebris Carta_ last week and didn't so much as get scorched when he opened it. Explain _that_ , because I can't."

Gwaine raised a brow. The _Tenebris Carta_ was an ancient legal document that was about as convoluted as… as… well, anything, really. He wasn't a lawyer, he didn't know if there were any equivalents in modern day. Maybe Morgana would know, but he was a little afraid of her.

(No deity was so omnipotent as to be able to see the future. Likewise, no deity would ever admit a weakness, either. They pretended Seers and other omniscient species didn't exist. Except they really, really did exist, and it was a little frustrating knowing that complete strangers had an ability outside of godly grasp.)

Morgana notwithstanding, the point was that the _Tenebris Carta_ couldn't be opened by anyone who hadn't already sworn to uphold the celestial balance of the universe. Even Gwaine hadn't been able to do that, and had lost a finger in the process of trying.

(It had eventually grown back.)

Gwaine turned to Arthur. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but was not very successful in stemming the flow of questions and protestations. "Didn't your mother teach you not to read old books out loud?"

"My mother's dead, ta," Arthur said, reaching over the bar to help himself to the bottle of Glenfiddich hidden just under the lip. Gwaine scowled, because he hadn't known that was there.

"The lessons, though," Gwaine said, and flinched when Merlin smacked him on the back of his head. "Ow."

"Some empathy and compassion for your fellow man would be nice," Merlin scolded.

"Except he's not exactly our _fellow man_ , is he?" Arthur asked, pointing a finger at Gwaine before sipping his drink.

Gwaine shrugged. He couldn't exactly be insulted by that. "Don't think you can distract me from the… problem. Reading a few books doesn't explain how --"

He waved a hand in Arthur's direction. He waved his hand generously over his own person. He made a tight-lipped grimace, then waved with hearty exaggeration between the two of them, and _willed_ Merlin to understand the problem. Surely someone as magically powerful as Merlin would catch on right away.

Merlin must have, because he waved a hand in the air in dismissal. It was a gesture so similar to Gwaine's mum's dismissive brush-off that Gwaine gaped for a second. "It's _Arthur_. Between everything he's read and everything he's seen? He figured the rest of it out on his own. The MRO might not have figured out where to categorise him in the Registry, but maybe they weren't altogether wrong to have kept him Registered." 

"Ah," Gwaine said, at a loss of what to say. To be honest, neither he nor his kin had ever seen anything like Arthur, before, which was why mum stationed Gwaine at MI5. Not-quite-officially, it was to keep an eye on things, but mum had always been curious about the younger Pendragon sibling.

"I don't suppose you have any idea?" Merlin asked, curious.

"No," Gwaine admitted, aware of having Arthur's full attention on him for all of zero-point-two seconds before losing it entirely. He was disappointed, but he was big enough of a minor god to accept that he'd lost the prize to the better man. No matter how much Gwaine complained about these two, he had to admit they were disgustingly perfect together.

"Too bad. Anyway, I could be wrong. I'm not altogether convinced he didn't just plug in the parameters into his computer and let it figure things out for him, though," Merlin said.

"Hey," Arthur protested. Then, with a small little shrug of his shoulder, he admitted, "Maybe a little. Just for confirmation purposes."

"Oh," Gwaine said, and scratched his jaw as he looked at the two of them.

(It was only in the last hundred and fifty years -- give or take -- that Gwaine concerned himself with the technological advancement of the human world. While everyone else threw hissy fits about losing the faith of their followers over the millennia, Gwaine, as a still-young buck in those days, had been less concerned with the resulting loss of godly power and more with the ongoing safety and privacy of the Celtic pantheon.

Every year, he grew a little more disturbed.

By the last twenty years? He'd become positively giddy with panic.

His older brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, grandparents, great-grand _etcetera_ really should be more worried that they'd get found out as not merely _human_ , as some of them pretended to be, or only mildly supernatural, as most of them claimed to be, but as Gods and Goddesses in their own right.

Gwaine had warned his mum. His mum shrugged as if it was inconsequential and only mildly bothersome, like the bite of an annoying mite. Or flea.

He didn't mind so much that Merlin had realised what he was almost right away. He probably suspected the same about Tristan and Isolde, since Tristan and Isolde were a little better at masking their godly auras. 

However, when someone had as much power as Merlin, it was awfully hard to hide the truth. Likewise, when technology had as much power as Merlin, it was awfully hard to hide the truth, except, thus far, technology didn't have the ability to connect the dots and to be alarmed about it.)

Gwaine stopped scratching his jaw.

"You didn't post that theory anywhere, did you?" Gwaine asked, suppressing the urge to load the Evil Overlord, Inc. blog on his mobile.

"Nah," Merlin said.

"Why would I give up perfectly good blackmail material?" Arthur scoffed. "I'm fairly close to completing your family tree, in particular."

Gwaine stared at him. He shook his head. "Why did I ever think we'd be good together?"

"Mischief and pranks aside, you're chaotic good," Arthur said, leaning in. "That's an inherent quality of being what you are. And don't try to deny it, I've seen your mission reports."

"Bugger," Gwaine said.

Arthur smirked. "Anyway, I'm lawful evil. Completely diametrically opposed on the chart. It would never have worked. I knew right away."

Gwaine turned to Merlin to see if he agreed. Gwaine didn't want to believe his chances with Arthur had ever been that bad.

Merlin shook his head sadly. "Don't even try."

"He'll go from lawful evil to chaotic evil," Arthur said with a grin. "Like he did with the Sigan-Cole entity."

"Actually, more like the Morrigàn when Cú Chulainn messed things up, if I'm reading _A History of Ancient Britain_ correctly," Merlin said. "Not the one by Montcalm, he's an idiot. Not the one by Oliver, either, though that one's fairly decent. The version written by some bloke named Gawaine Levert. First edition. Written sometime in the fifteen hundreds. Illuminated borders. Very graphic and enlightening."

Gwaine winced. 

"Know him?" Merlin asked pointedly. "Gawaine Levert, I mean. I couldn't find many other works by him, but I haven't really been looking."

Gwaine winced again.

"Oh, this I have to read," Arthur said, grinning broadly. For an instant, Gwaine mourned the fact that he hadn't convinced Arthur into his bed, but he couldn't help feeling grudgingly pleased for the bloke. He'd never seen anyone make Arthur smile the way Merlin easily managed.

"It reads like a tell-all," Merlin said. "You'd love it."

"The prose isn't the best," Gwaine said. "Don't judge it too harshly."

"Oh, he won't," Merlin said cheerfully. He thumbed in Arthur's direction. "This one likes reality shows purely for the drama. He reads the bloody _Sun_ for fun. He'll love it."

"Well, then," Gwaine said, reconsidering. He hemmed and hawed, but, after a second, decided, _fuck it_. He liked Merlin and Arthur. They were the sort of people he wanted on his side. Also, they knew what he really was and they didn't seem all that bothered, which was always a bonus. He'd told a few people, once, and had nearly been burned at the proverbial stake as a result. "There's a few other pseudonyms you could look under. A few more history books. A couple of treatises in this or that. More recently, some fiction that's not really fiction if you squint and read behind the line."

"Any trashy gay romance?" Arthur asked.

"M… maybe?" Gwaine hedged.

Arthur smirked. It was nowhere close to the smile Merlin had gotten, earlier, but Gwaine would take it. Arthur held up the bottle. "Drink?"

"Don't mind if I do," Gwaine said, pushing his empty tumbler over. The bartenders were still gone, probably on a fag or shag break somewhere, and it didn't look like he'd get another glass for his trouble.

"None for me," Merlin said, shaking his head when Arthur glanced his way.

"Learned your lesson?" Gwaine asked, amused.

"On the job, actually. It should be about that time," Merlin said, shrugging. He checked his watch, sighed, and distractedly looked around, as if searching for something.

Since Merlin wasn't paying attention, Gwaine raised his questioning eyebrow at Arthur. Arthur made an off-hand gesture and said, "The usual death threats against my father, coupled with Morgana having a few nightmares, and Merlin getting all twitchy when we arrived. Something about a bad vibe, whatever that means."

"Disturbance in the force?" Gwaine asked.

"These aren't the droids you're looking for," Merlin answered automatically.

"Han didn't shoot first," Arthur supplied, quite randomly, and the three of them exchanged a glance and grinned. The easy camaraderie over pop culture references faded quickly, however, when Merlin turned back to the crowd with a deep frown and Arthur realised that he was actually _bonding_ with Gwaine.

(Gwaine cackled. Maybe his chances were better than he'd thought they were. Given how attached Merlin and Arthur were to each other, perhaps he'd have to take one with the other.

Oh, the hardship.)

"For fuck's sake," Merlin muttered in fierce annoyance. His hands spread in unmistakable, unspoken, _Are you serious?_ , and he abruptly stalked off.

Gwaine glanced at Arthur. Arthur shrugged and sipped his drink. He somehow found another glass, because he added two fingers of Glenfiddich to it, and left it on the counter, presumably for Merlin, later, if he came back.

When Gwaine saw no sign of that happening, he turned to find Arthur studying him with narrow-eyed scrutiny. "Now that I have you alone --"

"This sounds promising." Gwaine shifted his position against the bar and leaned closer to Arthur. He gave Arthur a leer. "Already bored with your boy?"

"Never. If I were, you'd never be next in line." Arthur didn't give Gwaine any time to recover from the rejection he was well accustomed to by now, and continued with, "What we really wanted to talk to you about was your mum."

Gwaine leaned away, disgusted. "Yeah, that's a mood-killer."

On the other side of the large ballroom, there was a loud explosion, a bit of shouting, the crowd scattering -- but for some reason, not leaving like normal, intelligent people with highly-attuned self-preservation instinct. Arthur barely glanced in that direction before he checked his watch.

"Anyway," Arthur said, looking back at Gwaine, "We wanted to know if she was going to be all right with what we're doing."

"We don't know what you're doing," Gwaine lied baldly. After all these millennia, he was rather good at it.

"Well, good," Arthur said. He sipped his drink. "Is she?"

Gwaine sighed. "She gave you Excalibur, didn't she?"

( _Technically_ , Gwaine didn't say out loud.

What his mum didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Besides, it wasn't as if she was on speaking terms with the Lady of the Lake. Gwaine, on the other hand, was very much in her favour.)

Arthur stood up straight and fished something out of his inner coat pocket. Luckily, it wasn't a gun. Bullets wouldn't kill Gwaine, but it was a pain to heal, and he wasn't sure how he'd explain the holes to the shop where he'd hired the tuxedo.

"I'm not sure what that means, but I suppose I'll take it," Arthur said, as if he knew damn well how the sword had come into his hands. Then, without a word, he held his arm out.

And shoved a silver flask in the outraged, somewhat flustered, Uther Pendragon's hands.

"It was poison, father. This is the antidote. Don't waste your breath complaining or you'll be dead on the floor before you're finished. Drink it."

Uther blinked owlishly.

"Morgana Saw it," Arthur said, in a tone Uther must have understood, because _tone_ and _inflection_ , Gwaine had learned, was the secret language of the aristocratic posh and the Pendragons. Uther didn't hesitate and drank the antidote in one go. "Now, go apologise to Merlin for overreacting, remember to thank Mordred for the antidote, don't forget to call Morgana before she yells at me, and, yes, of course, you're getting the family discount."

Uther stared at his son as if he'd never quite seen him before, but a slow grin spread across his mouth, satisfied and _proud_. He turned on his heel, spine straight and shoulders back, and marched back into the political fray.

"You know," Gwaine said in his usual slow drawl, only to trail off to a thoughtful _Hm_. 

(Best not to get involved in things that were his great-aunts' specialty. They particularly liked messing with the web of Fate, and no doubt they'd be jealous when they discovered that a mere human was able to manipulate the threads far better than they ever could.

He wouldn't be the one to tell them, though. He'd been a messenger, once. Never again.)

"I swear, your father," Merlin began in a huff, only to stop when Arthur pushed the second glass of scotch into his hand. Merlin took a deep breath, took a deeper gulp, and continued, "He just dragged me into a photo op. Are you sure I can't hex him?"

"Maybe later," Arthur said. "Wouldn't want to ruin his chances in his new constituency, would we?"

Merlin grumbled under his breath.

"He's on our side," Arthur said.

Merlin grumbled some more. 

"You didn't want to stand for Parliament," Arthur said.

Merlin grunted. "Ugh." He held out his glass for more drink. Arthur obliged. Merlin glanced at Gwaine, but he was far more interested in the contents of his glass. "Did you ask him yet?"

"Not yet, no," Arthur said, putting down the bottle.

"So, it's like this," Merlin said, pausing to sip his scotch before putting it down on the bar. "EOI is expanding."

Gwaine raised a brow. He hadn't heard that. In his best disaffected tone, he asked, "Are you now?"

"See?" Merlin said, turning to Arthur pointedly. "He doesn't know. I told you George's firewalls were solid."

"Firewalls mean nothing when someone's an omniscient --"

Gwaine coughed on nothing, muffling the rest of what Arthur had been about to say. They were still alone at the bar, so there was little chance of being overheard, but still, it was best to be safer than sorry. Mum would tan his hide if it ever got out on his watch. He kept coughing until Merlin and Arthur stopped bickering, and asked, "So, the company is expanding?"

"Right, then," Arthur said, dropping the argument and regaining his composure. He turned to Gwaine, and very seriously, asked, "Are you looking for a job?"

Gwaine glanced between the two of them. Then, as he came to the slow realization that they were serious, he asked, "Are you offering me one?"

"Might be," Arthur said.

"Depends on whether you can behave," Merlin said, reaching for his glass. "Can you?"

"No," Gwaine said shamelessly, but also because there were a few things he never felt the need to lie about.

"You're hired," Arthur said, and held out his hand.


	3. Lords of Albion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rare interview with the two co-owners of Evil Overlord, Inc.
> 
> * * *

 

 

# BRITISH LEGENDS

**February, 2018**

_Camelot Publishing_

##  _Lords of Albion_

###### 

Cover story by Anthony Kilgharrah, with photography by Lillian Aithusa

There are few stragglers remaining after last call at the famed _Rising Sun_ , sitting stoop-shouldered over the dregs of their pints, bleary eyes sparkling with unnatural energy for this time of the night. Their faces are wind-weathered and sun-lined, and their clothes are stiff with the grease and grime of a working man's hard day, the laces of their work boots loosened in the same way that a manual worker relaxes the knot of a suffocating necktie.

These regulars sit on stools that have been moulded to the shape of their bodies, speak with the bartender the way a grandparent would indulge a precocious child, and somehow manage to be both congenial and standoffish with strangers. I am both a long-lost but well-loved relative and an unexpected guest overstaying their welcome.

"He's late," my photographer, Lillian Aithusa, says unnecessarily. It's the fourth time that she complains about it, and I don't see the need to respond. I am aggravated by being made to wait, but some individuals are worth waiting for.

After everything he's done in the last few months, I can hardly criticise the elusive Dr. M for something as pedestrian as tardiness. By every account, he's an extremely busy man who is not at all interested in the media attention that follows him whenever he makes an appearance Dr. M's public relations representative did warn us that he didn't keep to a schedule, and our meeting might be postponed to ensure everyone's safety. Although Ms. Aithusa and I are shielded by the laws protecting the media, the concern is appreciated in these uncertain times of political tumult.

"Give him a few extra hours," the public relations representative, who refused to give his name, had advised. We arrived early, and it is now two hours past the appointed time. I have long since switched to seltzer to counteract the salty pork scratchings from the bar, but Ms. Aithusa is on her fourth pint of bitter, and the sound of her fingers drumming on the table is louder than the background chatter.

I'm sitting facing the door, so that I can be ready when Dr. M arrives. And he does arrive, though in less spectacular fashion than I'd expected, given his natural propensity for grand entrances, and I don't recognise him right away. I'm looking for a tall, slim man with a flinty, no-nonsense look in his eyes, a thin smile, and a severe demeanour. Instead, Dr. M, Evil Overlord and director of the World Domination and Supernatural Resolution Division of Evil Overlord, Incorporated (est. 2017), is laughing.

He's not alone, I see a moment later. Arthur Pendragon, scion of Pendragon Unlimited and the Evil Overlord's Second, is right behind him. His presence is unexpected, but this is a rare opportunity. Outside of press conferences, Mr. Pendragon has never participated in an interview. If I'm lucky, I might get a word or two from him.

Although often photographed together, Dr. M and Mr. Pendragon are far more striking in person. They are imposing in their trademark bespoke suits and tailored overcoats heavy enough to guard against the bitter January winds, but it's the indescribable energy vibrating between them that fills the pub. I glance at Ms. Aithusa, and notice she's as similarly dumbstruck as I am.

Dr. M drags a rickety, uncomfortable, pub-standard wooden chair over to our booth and slouches in it as if it were a throne. It's not quite aristocratic insouciance. It's certainly not brash Alpha-male attitude, either. Rather, it's the confident comportment of a man who has everything under control before he breezes into the room.

It's both overwhelming and intimidating. I'm at an embarrassing loss for words. Fortunately, Dr. M takes no offence.

"I apologise. There was an emergency call. Someone stirred up the Wild Hunt in Camden. They didn't have the proper licenses, it's out of season anyway, and it got a little out of hand," Dr. M says, as if the situation was no more of an inconvenience than a minor bar brawl. And maybe it wasn't, because he doesn't appear to be the least bit ruffled after an encounter with a murderous group of Fae-enslaved barbarians whose single-minded drive can only be slaked by freshly spilled blood.

Ms. Aithusa coughs. She's swallowed the last of her pint in a hurry. Dr. M shoots her a glance of concern.

I didn't notice that Mr. Pendragon hadn't immediately joined us until he returns from the bar with two tumblers. I catch a glimpse of the bartender putting away a bottle of Chapter 15 that hadn't been on the menu when I'd ordered drinks hours ago.

The noble disregard that I'd been expecting in Dr. M comes from Mr. Pendragon, instead. He sits on a stool he'd taken from the bar, in a position slightly behind Dr. M and where he has the best vantage point in the room. Where Dr. M doesn't seem that concerned about his surroundings, Mr. Pendragon is hyperaware without seeming to be. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd already catalogued all the exit routes in the _Rising Sun_ and identified the greatest threats in a single glance.

Dr. M's earlier smile is gone, now, as is the faint amusement from Mr. Pendragon. I've been blessed with a glimpse of what the two most powerful men in London must be like when they aren't on their guards, and I can't help but mourn the loss.

It's a little late for it, and it seems unnecessary, since Dr. M and Mr. Pendragon approached us instead of the other way around, but we make our introductions. There's polite chatter about the horrible weather ("Climate change," Dr. M insists, while Mr. Pendragon sighs the way one does when warning others not to get someone started on a topic), the latest addition to the Royal Family (they are both interestingly tight-lipped on the subject), and the increase in supernatural activity since the Cornelius Sigan resurrection.

"Completely unrelated," Dr. M says. "Yes, the damage by the negavoid bomb twenty years ago caused an instability in the natural ley line flow and attracted more supernaturals to London, but we took care of the leak and restored the balance last month. That's not why it's still happening."

Twenty-two years ago, to be exact, Cornelius Sigan, the deadliest and most feared Evil Overlord in British history, was killed to stop his mad rampage. It's not clear whether Sigan was kept in suspended animation by the negavoid radiation, or if some other factors were at play, but Dr. M is quick to reassure us that the odds of reproducing the exact conditions to repeat the phenomenon of resurrection are very small.

"It was actually a possession," Dr. M says, "But never mind that. It's semantics at this point."

I let the matter drop. "You sound as if you know why it's happening, when the government has no comment on the subject." 

"Of course I know," Dr. M says, scoffing. He sips his scotch, puts the tumbler on the table, and leans back, almost thoughtfully. He isn't quick to elaborate, but I can tell that more is coming.

By now, Ms. Aithusa has rediscovered the courage that earned her the vaunted reputation as a war photographer, and has raised her camera. She takes a few snaps. Mr. Pendragon, who is no doubt accustomed to the media limelight, barely glances her way. Dr. M, however, turns to Ms. Aithusa with a piercing, little frown. The camera stops clicking and lowers, but Dr. M is quick to reassure her.

"Sorry," he says. "I was thinking."

"About what?"

"How much to tell you," Dr. M says, and pauses to look behind him at Mr. Pendragon. 

Considering the threats on his life by rogue MRO agents, Dr. M is surprisingly comfortable with someone in his blind spot, but it speaks a great deal of the trust between the two men. It's a trust that goes both ways, because Mr. Pendragon shrugs his shoulders, clearly leaving it up to the majority partner in Evil Overlord, Inc.

"Since the disbanding of the Ministry of Supernatural Suppression --"

"Supervision," Mr. Pendragon corrects, a tone of amusement in his voice.

"Right. That. Since then, the Magical Registry Office has been moved around to a few different other departments, but they've got problems. Since all the trouble they caused under Tòmas Aredian, nobody wants them hanging around the office tea room. They're a blight on anyone's pristine political reputation --"

Mr. Pendragon coughs, and he and I share a moment of understanding before he sips his own glass of scotch. Few, if anyone, has a _pristine_ political reputation, and some are better than most. One example is Uther Pendragon, who has certainly has garnered a great deal of public support recently, and his political reputation remains a blank slate. That's a story for another article, however.

"-- and until the Magical Registration Act is completely repealed, the Office is a blight, full stop."

Although a Select committee is looking into the matter, the troublesome question of Tòmas Aredian's influence at all levels of the government remains unanswered. Corruption, blackmail, and bribery are only a few of the charges being levied against him. No doubt more guilty parties will emerge as the investigation continues.

"It's like this," Dr. M says, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. "Things were awful, before. They're better, now, but it's not perfect. Prejudices are hard to get rid of, especially in smaller towns, where it's difficult to remain anonymous. With the MRO in a state of flux, a lot of their personnel aren't sure if they should stick it out to see what happens once everything settles or if they should leave and save themselves while they still can. 

"It's not the same in Ireland and Scotland, where the MRO is worked into the policing differently than it is here and in Wales, but it's not a better situation, there, either, because Aredian was involved there, too. On top of that, no matter where they were originally assigned for duty, a number of MRO agents have gone rogue, and they're retaliating against the supernatural community."

"Do you have proof of that?" I ask, even when I know the answer.

Dr. M inclines his head, giving me the driest look this side of the Gobi desert. "I was told you wouldn't ask stupid questions."

"I'm a reporter, Dr. M. Sometimes stupid questions are part and parcel of the job."

Dr. M makes a small noise in the back of his throat and shifts in his seat as if Mr. Pendragon had just elbowed him. Dr. M doesn't seem to mind. He eventually reaches for his tumbler of scotch, and takes a long, slow sip before he speaks again.

"The point being, there may be more supernatural activity in London, but most of the attacks from rogue agents are occurring _outside_ of London --"

"Seventy-eight percent, give or take a few percentage points," Mr. Pendragon supplies helpfully.

"-- and where would you go if you were supernatural, lived in a small town, and didn't feel safe anymore?"

"London," Ms. Aithusa answers, without missing a beat. She flushes in embarrassment and raises the camera to take a few more photos.

"Right," Dr. M says. "They come to London, where it's safe. It's safe because I'm here. I'm doing everything I can to make sure that everyone, mundane or magical, is protected. The laws are changing, but it's going to take time, and people's attitudes don't change all that fast."

"No, they don't," I say, unable to help myself. I've experienced my share of prejudice over the centuries. It's why I prefer working with Ms. Aithusa, for example. She's young, but she's dragonkind, and I don't want her to have to suffer the way I once did. The age of Knights hunting dragons is long past, and I do not want a resurgence of that time. I understand where Dr. M is coming from, and I appreciate his efforts to change both society and the law.

"But the thing is," Dr. M continues in a quieter voice, "London isn't that big. There's only so much more immigration that it can sustain before it hits a breaking point in the population. Times are hard enough without throwing in a housing crisis or increasing unemployment rates into the mix. I can't just fix London and hope for the best."

He exchanges a glance with Mr. Pendragon. Mr. Pendragon is unbothered, and places a hand on Dr. M's shoulder. Whatever silent conversation they've just had, it seems that they came to an agreement. Dr. M turns to us and shrugs.

"It's what we're working on. I wasn't sure if I should mention it now or until we've had more progress behind us, but it's as good a time as any."

"Mention what?"

Dr. M smirks. His eyes are dark despite the sudden gleam of gold in them. I'm nervous, and I can't explain why.

"Evil Overlord, Incorporated, is expanding. We plan to take over all of the United Kingdom by the end of the year."

The announced is so unexpected that neither I, nor Ms. Aithusa, are able to make a sound for several minutes. I'm not altogether certain that I'm breathing at this point. There's a weight in the room that I haven't felt in a thousand years, and I know it as the promise of prophecy.

The solemnity of the moment is broken by the shrill ring of a smartphone, which Dr. M takes out from his inner coat pocket without apology. He answers with a few curt words, rolls his eyes with all the disappointment someone can have in the human race, and passes the mobile to Mr. Pendragon, who immediately moves away, out of earshot.

"I'm afraid we have to cut the interview short," Dr. M says, pausing to finish the rest of his scotch. 

"Is there a problem?" I ask, and I sound as if I've swallowed a frog. I'm still shaken by the earlier announcement of EOI's expansion.

"Oh, no, nothing major," Dr. M says, getting up. "Just, someone's got it in their heads to cut the mists of Avalon."

Aithusa made a startled, frightened noise. I'm feeling a little ill, myself. The mists of Avalon were raised well before my time, and are all that keeps the old Gods, Goddesses and monsters from running rampant throughout Great Britain.

"Yeah, I know," Dr. M says, but he doesn't seem to be as alarmed as he should be. I'm about to explain the direness of the situation when he adds, "As if I don't have to deal with their rubbish enough on a daily basis without adding more of their lot to the mix."

"Ah," I say, because how does one react to the new knowledge that there are old Gods walking the earth, even now? All I can do is hope that the Evil Overlord of London -- soon to become the Evil Overlord of Albion -- continues to ' _deal with their rubbish_ ' so that the rest of us won't have to.


End file.
